Desired: The Untold Story of Samson and Delilah (Lost Loves of the Bible) by Ginger Garrett Page A

this time, so that the fabric of our tunics touched. I sucked in my stomach, a feeling like fear shooting through it, unwilling for him to touch my body, even through my tunic, afraid to touch his. The buzzing in my head was relentless, drowning out all thought and reason. There was only his breath on the soft, bare skin of my neck and the warm, soft flesh of his palm pressed into mine.
    I couldn’t breathe. He lowered his face to mine, and without thinking, without meaning to offer myself, I lifted my mouth to his. I closed my eyes and shivered. His lips grazed my forehead—my forehead!—and not my mouth, and he held me a moment more.
    The lute player had changed songs. Samson was leading me to my home. Panic stabbed through my stomach as I bit my lips to keep from crying. I heard bowls being raised in a lewd toast.
    Where was Astra? Or Mother? I tried to steal glances back over my shoulder, but I was too embarrassed for any of the men to catch my eye. I saw Samson’s father instead, who was watching us with a kind expression. Old as the dirt we stood on, with sparse white hair and hanging white brows, he nodded at me and raised his bowl.
    I wanted to die. I was going to die, before Samson even had a chance to undress me. I could not breathe when he touched me, not even when I was in my tunic.
    He released my hand at my door. “Good night, wife.”
    “Uh.” That’s all I could say. I had thought he would take me tonight. I had been drunk, I understood, he had been kind, but he was surely going to take me tonight. Why was he not going to take me tonight?
    That same cursed smile played on his lips. “You were expecting something else?”
    He leaned his right arm over me, leaning against the doorframe of the house, imprisoning me under his huge, overfed frame.
    “My wife is disappointed with me? So soon?” Samson asked.
    “Don’t.” It was a warning.
    He loved it. He laughed like I was the wittiest girl he had ever known, a rare gem.
    “I was joking. I only brought you home so you could change.”
    “Change?”
    “I want to take you somewhere. Change. We will take my donkeys. Unless you prefer me to carry you.”
    I flung the door to the house open to escape the horror of such a thing. He probably would do that, too. However, I had nothing to change into, and we had never owned donkeys, so I didn’t know why I had to change my tunic to ride.
    The length. Probably the length of my tunic was too long. I rummaged through Mother’s basket and found her best sash. Wrestling my own off, I wrapped hers around my waist twice, tying it in back. A splash of cold water on my face and a finger scrubbed across my teeth were the only other grooming tricks I knew.
    I opened the door, and he was waiting.

    The donkey plodded up the road into the hills with steady good humor, despite the huffs from nearby lions and the screams of the badgers.
    “Your donkey is a good one,” I said, ending the quiet truce we had kept since leaving the feast last hour.
    “He is not my donkey.”
    I turned, finally having the nerve to look at him.
    He had been studying me during the whole ride and smiled to see me finally look back. “He’s yours. For the return journey.”
    “He’s sweet.” I didn’t know how to judge a good donkey, but I had to say something. I couldn’t believe I was alone with Samson in the valley under a full moon, and all I could talk about was donkeys. If he had any wisdom about choosing wives, he’d swat the donkey and send us both fleeing into the hills, away from him.
    “Where are we going then?”
    He smiled. “Away for a few hours.”
    My stomach was knotting up. I had to relieve myself terribly badly. The more I thought about it, the worse it got. Sweat broke out all over my face and chest. How did wives say these things to their men? Or was I to always keep these things a secret, an honorable silence? I did not know.
    “Listen.” Samson stopped the donkey, stroking his muzzle. The donkey turned his